


Truth From a Bottle

by V6ilill



Category: Warhammer 40.000
Genre: Addiction, Angst, Body Horror, Force-Feeding, Former Friends, Friendship, Gen, Graphic Description, Helplessness, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Kinda, Non-Consensual Touching, One Shot, Psychological Horror, Unreliable Narrator, allusions to past trauma, one (1) joke
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-29
Updated: 2021-01-29
Packaged: 2021-03-15 16:34:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,961
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29067396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/V6ilill/pseuds/V6ilill
Summary: An Inquisitor, alone with nothing but the broken remnants of her past, realizes why it is so trivially easy for her to disguise herself as a crazed addict
Relationships: Original Character & Original Character
Kudos: 3





	Truth From a Bottle

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Амасек](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28976751) by [SetiMarnihara](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SetiMarnihara/pseuds/SetiMarnihara). 



> I swear I just keep writing one-shots about this character, but never find the time to even outline a full fic

“What are you doing next to the vid-camera?” a local demanded, buckets of food paste hefted onto his shoulders.

Livia turned to stare empty-eyed at him, demonstratively taking a sip of vodka. A propaganda leaflet glued to the wall poked her in the rib, extolling the virtues of sobriety.

The deliveryman’s face grew even more incensed. “Are you a resident?” he asked, mere moments from setting the buckets down and kicking her out of the nearest window.

Livia showed him her keys. “Room 781,” she slurred slightly. The drink was, in truth, greatly watered down, but the people didn’t need to know that. It wasn’t like some drunkard squatting in the corner with a bottle could plant listening devices on vid-feeds.

“Then stop obstructing the hallway and go there,” he ordered.

Livia rose on shaky legs, swaying like just another alcoholic. She cast a glance at the camera - all set. Soon, she’d have intel on the local cult’s gatherings.

She traipsed to her temporary apartment about the size of a particularly poor noble’s shoe closet, taking a swig of vodka whenever a neighbor walked by. She turned the key in one fluid movement and pushed the rusty metal door with her elbow.

Inside, Livia locked herself in, setting the bottle on the table with several others. All she had to do now was wait. She supposed a little more alcohol wouldn’t hurt, even if she was markedly intolerant to it. That’s why she watered it down, after all. She poured vodka into a chipped green cup, sipping it slowly. She blinked lazily, watching insects scurry along the cracked wallpaper, feeling sleep press on her eyelids. The table, cobbled together from scrap metal by some previous owner, faintly reflected her hunched shape. Livia tilted her head, watching the light glint off the shiny surface with a half-lidded gaze.

A dark shape glided towards her, rustling on the worn carpet and stained floor. Livia sat up straight, hand going to her hip.

The sanctioned psyker swept errant crumbs off the table, staring at Livia with closed eyes.

“Nona?” Livia called out, feeling cold sweat creep onto her skin. Something about the situation wasn't right.

“Good evening,” the woman smiled pleasantly “What name do you go by now, I wonder?”

“Livia Ocularia,” she declared, a pinprick of dread shooting through her mind. She didn’t know if she was supposed to be having this conversation, but could not stop herself.

“You don’t even look like one of us,” Nona shook her head in amusement, waves of blonde hair swaying with every movement.

“The locals don’t need to know that,” Livia dismissed her concerns. Why was she continuing to talk? “As long as I seem foreign enough . . .”

“I suppose you could pass for a halfbreed raised on Oculus Corelia,” Nona turned to rummage through the single cupboard pressed into the corner “Well, at least you’ll be able to talk about the sights. I’ve told you about the Cathedral of Bones, haven’t I?”

Livia racked her brain, but could not remember either way. Something was wrong, but she could not figure out what.

“I’m supposed to be living here alone,” the woman looked around warily. How thick were those walls, exactly? She had checked, certainly, but she couldn’t recall her findings in the slightest. The neighbors could hear. They could hear everything.

She had to stop herself, Livia remembered. She had to, but not only was she unable to, she didn’t even want to in the first place.

“My friend, you worry too much,” Nona consoled “Things could be much worse, I find, so why not appreciate what we have? I could be possessed, for example, or dead altogether.”

Livia frowned. Things clicked into place. “But you _are_ dead . . . you all are.”

She looked back, expecting to find the ghosts of the others right behind her. They were not. Livia wondered why.

“And whose fault is that, hm?” the apparition gently set down a dainty teacup. Livia opened her mouth to say something - anything - but her jaw was stapled shut and her lips would not part. “Oh, don’t look so crestfallen, everyone makes mistakes sometimes. That’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

“I’m an Inquisitor. I cannot afford to make mistakes,” Livia snapped, eyeing the teapot with disdain. Anything could be in there.

“Ah, always so uptight,” the phantasm smiled indulgently “Come, share a cup of tea with me. Let us not dwell on such grim matters.”

The tea smelled of tranquilizers, chemical lobotomies and a dark, damp cellar where those presumed dead woke up not alone.

The sharp realization cut through the hazy atmosphere of familiarity and domestic comfort. “You can’t be here,” Livia stood, pushing the chair away “Leave me alone, fiend.”

She patted down her clothing and found no weapons, no armor, not even her hairpin. There were no doors, no windows, no ladders and trapdoors, just pastel-green wallpaper brimming with long-extinct flowers.

“Why can’t I visit my dearest friend?” Nona tilted her head.

Livia picked up the chair, holding it in front of herself. “How did you even-?”

“There are many ways to return, sweetie,” the psyker put her hands on the chair, effortlessly yanking it out of Livia’s hands “And there are even more ways to never leave.”

“No, I saw you-” the Inquisitor raised her voice, stepping away. The room was the same in every direction, and there was no escape, no salvation and no way to leave. “I know what I did, I saw you-!”

“Oh, don’t beat yourself over what happened there,” Nona made a dismissive gesture **_“It’s not like you had a choice.”_ **

The room reverberated with echo, and the false visage of a beautiful, living woman fell away. Nona stood as she truly was - a bloodless-white corpse, arms and legs contorted in rigor mortis, face blue from asphyxia. The mint-green walls swayed like ocean waves, converging on Livia. Nona towered over the woman, elongating like a recaf stain on the wall. She wasn’t that high - had never been-

“I didn’t want to do it,” Livia stepped back on shaking legs. The soles of her feet sunk into a carpet of nail skewers. “I didn’t- I don’t- it wasn’t fair of me to-to-”

“Please, there’s no need to shout,” a placid smile reappeared on her suffocated face “Have a cup of tea and calm down. I heard you like mint.”

“I don’t want your tea, I’m not thirsty,” Livia lost her balance, stumbling backwards “I’m not thirsty, _put it away!”_

Delicate hands caught her, frost-blackened fingers pressing into her wrists like a sadist’s switchblade. The phantom no longer held the warmth of life, her hands colder than the void of space, their very touch leaving white blotches. Decaying skin sloughed off in a long, thin film, sagging like Nona’s robes. She smelled of chipping paint and the metal of an airlock, towering over Livia like an exalted torturer.

“You were always so fond of tea,” the apparition noted, frowning slightly “It’s sad to see that passion go. But I see you would prefer some _vodka_ instead.”

She rolled out a bottle, uncorking it with a deft swipe. It smelled like disinfectant, like a council of medicae with rusty knives and jagged scissors circling carrion.

“I’m not-” Livia choked on the words, bile bubbling in her throat.

Nona smiled demurely, gently pushing the woman into the chair. She poured the vodka into a teacup like it was blood-burning poison, careful not to spill a single drop.

“There’s no shame in it,” she crooned, pushing the seafoam-green cup closer “Drink.”

“But I-” Livia began.

**_“Drink,”_ ** Nona pushed the cup into the woman’s mouth, ceramic smacking against teeth. Liquid splashed onto her shirt, the taste of paint stripper and blood settling on her tongue.

A smooth hand dug into Livia’s cheek, uneven nails slicing it open to the bone. Searing cold pain shot through her as her mouth jerked wide open. Nona poured the vodka in, tilting Livia’s head backwards.

_“Stop,”_ she gasped, mouth full of drugs. The poison poured down her throat, and no matter how hard she coughed, it kept coming, pressing down on the bottom of her mouth. The hand on her face inched downwards, ready to tear off her shirt and explore the flesh beneath.

There was no air, only the vile mass raining down her throat, and the cracked ceiling of a little damp room with no exit. Livia gulped down the vodka, feeling her throat scald. “I don’t want-” she sputtered, but poison drowned out her words. Soon she would be laying prone on the table, naked and helpless as a doll.

“There’s no need to deny the truth, dear,” Nona soothed “Drink, and all your woes will fade. I can’t blame you for wanting an escape, after all.”

Livia smacked the cup with a clammy hand, hacking up sleeping draught. The walls and table swayed, like she was being beaten against a cold, metal slate in the throes of another's hatred. “I’m not an alcoholic,” she retched, her stomach filled with something rotting “Go away!”

“Ah ah ah,” Nona wagged her finger, skin and muscle flaking off the mottled-yellow bone _“Lying is a sin.”_

“It’s just an act! I’m pretending!” Livia screamed, the lamplight streaking across the spinning ceiling _“Leave me alone!”_

She yanked Nona’s putrefying hand from her cheek, a web of stretched strands of skin tangling in her fingers.

The phantom stopped, hands hovering in the empty air. Hand-shaped bruises dug into her forearms, azure against alabaster skin.

“It’s all fake,” Livia repeated “Just as fake as my name.”

Nona opened her sunken eyes, the pleased smile wiped from her face. The empty orbs of grey reflected a sickly, hunched figure breathing heavily in stained clothing, a figure who seemed barely strong enough to stand up. That was Livia, wasn't she? Yet that wasn't- couldn't be right, she would never fall to such a level, never-

“If I didn’t know, I’d believe your act of an insane, unwashed alcoholic,” Nona said, leaning forward. Behind her cracked lips, yellow teeth jutted out of blackened, rotting gums. “But I do know. And it is no act.”

Livia jumped from the chair, her eyes searching for the door. Soon, the poison would take hold and she would never see the light of day again, soon she would be dragged down into the darkness to be poked and prodded at the leisure of a sadist. Never again, she vowed, never again, she told herself as she turned and turned and turned, searching for an escape that was not there. She wouldn’t go back, never- not in ten thousand years would she ever return, not even if suffering was all she deserved. Who were fellow mass murderers to judge her for doing in the line of duty what they orchestrated for fun?

Livia’s foot slipped on the tile and she smashed headfirst against the metal table. Dull pain squeezed her skull from within and she woke, unharmed.

She found herself laying on the table, an empty bottle teetering precariously on the edge. Pulsing pain pressed on her head, spots gliding across her sight. Livia could not remember when she had fallen asleep, or how much she had drunk.

She ran a hand through her hair, wiping sweat from her forehead. There was a terrible taste in her mouth, like something was rotting between her teeth. Heart hammering against her chest, Livia rose, staggering to the mirror glinting in the corner.

In front of her was the pale, drawn face of a crazed addict: mouth frozen in a lopsided facsimile of a grin; empty eyes full of red veins; matted, untidy hair; starvation-sharpened cheekbones protruding from sagging skin; black, puffy blotches under the eyes - and it was no act.


End file.
